


Wicked Game

by athersgeo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 22:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2828630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athersgeo/pseuds/athersgeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mac goes undercover to help Phryne and Jack to solve the murder of a young girl...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mazily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazily/gifts).



> This probably slots into the universe sometime after the end of the second series.
> 
> Implied Phryne/Jack/Mac

Dr Elizabeth MacMillan – Mac, to her friends – was used to receiving calls at odd hours. It was one of the perils of her vocation and one she truly didn't mind. Most of the time.

"You want me to wear what?"

This was one of the occasions where she was resenting the call vigorously.

Phryne Fisher – and only she could conceivably get away with offering Mac a silk gown that probably cost more than Mac's annual wages – simply waved the dress at her again. "Please, Mac?"

Mac knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that by the end of the evening she would be wearing the wretched garment – because when Phryne set her mind to something, it always came to pass. That didn't mean Mac intended to make it easy. "Why? Why on earth would you--"

"We need someone to go undercover," Phryne explained. "And it can't be me or Dot – we've met all the suspects already."

"What about Jack?"

"Jack? In a House Flourie silk extravaganza?" Phryne contrived to make the idea sound simultaneously both utterly wrong and worthy of further consideration.

Mac nearly choked on her drink. "I didn't mean like that."

Phryne smiled impishly. "I know. Besides, and quite apart from the fact that our suspects have also met Jack, the difficulty is it has to be a lady--"

"Well that let's me off, right there. I'm no lady," said Mac with considerable finality.

Phryne uttered an ineffable snort. "You're more of a lady than any of our suspects will ever be. And that's beside the point."

Mac set down her glass and gave Phryne a long and pointed look. "Start from the beginning, Phryne. What is it that you and Jack are investigating?"

Phryne, as if sensing she had her prey just where she wanted it, took up her own seat and sipped her long-forgotten drink. "It's the girl they fished out of the Yarra, two days ago, Rosa Jenkins. She was last seen at the extremely exclusive Foxtrot Club and we're certain that's where she died, but that's where the trail runs cold. The members there aren't speaking to Jack and only grudgingly with me. That's why we want someone to go in as a genuine member – and they don't admit single men, which rules out Hugh--"

"Besides, you wouldn't want to do that to Constable Collins," said Mac. "He'd stammer so much he'd give himself away. Nice lad, but painfully shy."

"Exactly," said Phryne, pouncing. "That's why it has to be you."

"Me?" Mac shook her head. "No-one would believe me as a woman from that kind of scene anymore than they'd believe Hugh Collins. I'm too manish. I stride--"  


"—Not in the pair of shoes that go with this dress you won't," said Phryne with decision.

"And what on earth do I know about the life of a vapid socialite? You're the closest thing to a socialite that I know and I don't think you could even spell vapid."

"V-a-p-i-d," Phryne spelled out promptly.

Mac rolled her eyes. "You know what I meant."

"I'll take it as a compliment."

"You should." Mac picked up her neglected drink and drained the last of the whiskey with one swallow. "Honestly, Phryne, your Jane would be a better person to pitch on."

"Jack vetoed her."

Mac choked. Phryne really was thoroughly incorrigible.

"Look at it this way: you'll be helping to catch a young girl's murderer, you'll be doing Melbourne a great service, Jack and I will find…some way to reward you," Phryne smirked lasciviously, "and I solemnly promise that I will not ask you for a favour for the rest of this year."

"That's a cheap promise – there's only three weeks of the year left," Mac pointed out. "I'd like it better if you promised this would be the only time you ever thought of putting me in a silk dress."

Too late, Mac realised what she'd said and she groaned even as Phryne's eyes lit up. "Done and done."

Mac cursed.

"You'll be the honourable Lady McDougal, newly arrived from Scotland. I know you can do a decent Scottish accent, for I've heard you do it before, and since you did some of your training in Edinburgh--"

"—I can at least sound authentic," said Mac, resigned. Then a new thought struck her. "You're not going to make me wear make up and one of those silly feathery things?"

"Make up, yes; boa, no." Phryne paused for a moment, as if considering the matter. "But there will need to be some kind of headpiece, I think."

Mac closed her eyes and groaned. This was taking on all the proportions of a personal hell. "So I go in there, I talk to people, I find your killer and then I'm finished."

"That's the plan. Of course," said Phryne lightly, "you may need more than one visit."

"Of course." Mac considered standing up so she could bang her head against the nearest convenient wall. "I'm only doing this because you plied me with my favourite Scotch first – and promised me favours later."

"Absolutely."

Mac opened her eyes again and pinned Phryne with a glare. "You are an evil woman, Phryne Fisher."

Phryne gave a contented sort of smile. "But only in the most loveable sense."

*

An hour later and Mac was a woman transformed. She felt uncomfortable and gawky, but the woman she could see in the mirror did actually look like some stylish aristocrat. The silk gown, in a deep emerald green that complemented her colouring, flowed almost like a second skin. Clinging in at the bodice, it swept out in the skirt in a way that was pushing the boundaries of current style as only a garment belonging to Phryne Fisher could. A cloak, lined with ermine and made from the same silk as the dress, would be worn over the top. Of the hated makeup, there was only the lightest dusting of powder, paired with a lipstick that was only a little darker than Mac's own natural lip colour, while Phryne's 'headpiece' was a simple band of silk that matched the dress, with a few rhinestones stitched into place to add a little sparkle.

Then there was the pair of shoes. To Mac's general surprise, they weren't the high-heeled monstrosities she'd been expecting. Instead, they were delicate slippers but, as Phryne had said, she found it impossible to simply stride in them. It was as if her feet had suddenly developed minds of their own. She tried to stride towards the mirror and the woman in the mirror simply sashayed.

"If we were in a more superstitious age, I'd accuse you of witchcraft, Phryne," Mac muttered.

Phryne's face appeared in the reflection, smirking. "Wouldn't be the first time I've been called a witch." Then, and before Mac could object, she fastened a necklace of sparkling diamonds around Mac's neck and fitted a matching bracelet to her wrist. "There. Perfect."

Mac grimaced at her friend. "So now you've dolled me up, how do I get to this club?"

"Cec will be your driver," said Phryne. "He--" There was a knock on the door. "–in fact, that will be him."

"And who am I supposed to pay close attention to?"

"Eliza Markham was Rosa's school friend. They were supposedly close, but were last seen arguing. Caroline Hinchliff was Rosa's sponsor in the club, but there were rumours her husband, Peter, had far too much of an interest in Rosa. Irina Ratishvili is passing herself off as a wealthy Russian émigré, but Rosa was clever enough to have seen through the act."

Mac took careful mental note of all three names and the stories that went with them.

"Ready?"

Mac shrugged. Damn – even that petulant gesture somehow looked graceful in this dress! "As I'll ever be."

"Good." Phryne's face disappeared from the reflection and a moment later the cloak was expertly settled about Mac's shoulders. "Jack will be waiting with Cec, and they'll be just round the corner."

"Good to know."

Mentally squaring her shoulders, Mac turned away from the mirror and headed out of Phryne's dressing room and set off down the stairs. Waiting at the bottom were Mr Butler, Cec – dressed in the uniform of an expensive chauffeur, and looking as uncomfortable as Mac herself felt – and Bert, Dot – who's eyes were almost dropping out of her head with surprise – and lastly Jack – who was perhaps as surprised as Dot, but who was far more able to hide it, even if the glint in his eye suggested she'd just filled at least one of his private fantasies.

"Miss—Dr MacMillan you look...wow," said Dot breathlessly.

"Well said," said Phryne.

"Shall we?" Jack gestured.

And Mac found herself being escorted out of the house on the arm of an extremely handsome man.

*

Name to the contrary, the Foxtrot Club wasn't a place for dancing, Mac was surprised to learn. Although there was a house band playing music, it was gentle jazz rather than anything too energetic and, instead, the members of the club mixed and mingled and talked.

Oh, my, did they talk.

Mac thought her throat would never be the same again – only the ready supply of drink was keeping it lubricated against the constant chatter. And the worst part was that at least three quarters of the chatter was thoroughly inane. Fashion. Jewellery. Where their next holiday would take them. Which finishing schools or universities their children would be attending – and there, Mac had to forcibly remind herself that she was supposed to be incognito before she started on a rant about how girls were just as capable of attending the great universities as boys were, and how finishing schools were nothing of the kind. The members of the Foxtrot Club would see her views as some kind of heresy, no doubt.

Before Mac had been there an hour, she'd been inclined to slip the whole gathered crowd some Epsom salts and enjoy the subsequent fireworks. Unfortunately, Phryne had done her work well, and none of Mac's usual pocket-fillers had made it into the ludicrously sized clutch purse she was carrying.

Probably just as well.

It hadn't taken long for her to identify the three ladies Phryne had mentioned. One of them, Caroline Hinchliff, she ruled out straight away. While it was blindingly obvious her husband had a bad case of the wandering dick – he'd even tried to hit on Mac (Phryne and Jack would probably both find that hilarious, no doubt) – she had a suspicious tremble to her hands and her walk was unsteady. The older woman clearly suffered from some sort of malady and a strong young thing like Rosa Jenkins would have easily fought her off.

The wannabe Russian Émigré, on the other hand, was wiry and had a look to her that suggested she knew well how to defend herself. Mac was inclined to agree with Phryne's assessment that Irina Ratishvili was not a dispossessed Russian heiress – her story, which Mac had been given by a breathless acolyte of the Russian woman, was just too perfect. Mac supposed that they should at least be grateful that she wasn't claiming to be Anastasia! All that said, however, Mac doubted a débutante like Rosa – intelligent, though she might have been – would have picked up on the inconsistencies and improbabilities of Irina's story. She and Phryne had both been in Europe at the end of the war and had met the real refugees. It made a difference.

Then there was Rosa's school friend. And she was the one Mac was most intrigued by. For a débutante being feted and adored by all and sundry, Eliza looked utterly miserable. It could be boredom, but then there were the furtive glances she was casting in the direction of one particular alcove. At first glance, Mac couldn't see any difference between it and any of the others in the room, but then she spotted it.

There was a loveseat, almost completely hidden from the room. It was a place a pair of friends could have a private conversation – or a pair of lovers, perhaps? Was that it? A lover spurned?

Or maybe it was something else. Rosa's death hadn't been a crime of passion. It had been deliberate and calculating. The finger marks around Rosa's neck suggested her killer had been facing her and had been far too strong for Rosa to fight off. That really didn't sound like something Eliza might be able to accomplish – even if she had the will for it.

But who would have the strength and the will?

Mac scanned the crowd around Eliza again and spotted the likely culprit: Eliza's older brother (and how he was permitted entry, given the rule about unmarried men, Mac didn't like to speculate). He too was casting looks towards that alcove. Only his glances looked guilty as sin, where his sister's had simply looked forlorn.

Circulating the room with what was becoming expert ease (Phryne and Jack would probably find that hilarious, too), Mac made her way discretely into the alcove and took notice of scratches on the floor that suggested something – the loveseat, probably – had been shoved aside in a struggle. There were also smudges on the wall and a picture frame that was still handing just slightly askew – it could be from a more recent assignation, of course, but sorting that out was definitely a job for Jack, now he would know where to look.

Before Mac could leave, however, she was joined in the alcove by Eliza herself.

"Oh!" The girl looked startled. "I didn't realise--"

"I was just--" Mac began. Then she stopped as her basic compassion made her rethink. Eliza really did look utterly distraught. "Are you all right?"

Eliza sniffled. "No. I—you're not like everyone else here."

It was a statement, not a question. "I expect I'm the only one here who's ever walked the Royal Mile," Mac replied lightly, at the same time strongly suspecting she knew what Eliza was driving at.

Eliza gave a watery smile. "I mean you're—you're not the marrying kind." The words were whispered, in case anyone should be eavesdropping.

Mac was now caught in a quandary. Phryne would undoubtedly brazen it out, but Phryne was a law unto herself and routinely got away with things that would make your hair curl. Mac didn't think she could be entirely honest here and now, but outright lying stuck in her caw. "I think there's more to a woman's life than how many children she can produce," she finally offered.

Eliza nodded jerkily. Clearly that had been confirmation enough. "I—need some help."

*

Mac found Jack and Cec parked exactly where they'd promised. Cec was snoozing in the driver's seat while Jack was sprawled comfortably across the back seat, a thick book propped up on his knee.

"You'll give yourself eyestrain," Mac commented wryly.

Jack merely offered an enigmatic smile, closed the book and moved enough that Mac could get into the car. "Well?"

"I can give you the who, the where and the why," said Mac. "And it's not what you're thinking."

Jack slowly raised his eyebrows. "Try me."

"Rosa and Eliza were a bit more than just friends. Their families got wind of that and tried to separate them – Eliza was due to sail for Europe at the end of the week, while Rosa was supposed to be going on a cruise with her mother. Two nights ago was supposed to be their final farewell, but Rosa promised Eliza she'd jump ship when the cruise reached Marseilles. The argument was Eliza trying to convince Rosa not to do something so foolhardy. Eliza's brother got to hear of it and took matters into his own hands."

"You're right; that wasn't what I expected." Jack's mouth thinned into a grimace.

"Also, the would-be Russian is actually a pickpocket, scamming the Foxtrot Club members out of their baubles," Mac continued. "I caught her trying to lift my – Phryne's – bracelet."

Jack blinked. "Clearly, Miss Fisher and I need to involve you in our investigations more often. Between the three of us we'd have the crime rate down to zero in no time."

"Not if it means wearing this dress ever again." Mac was firm on that point.

"But you wear it so well." Jack's words were almost a purr.

"Phryne would wear it better, and you know it." Even so, Mac couldn't help but enjoy the glide of the silk against her skin. "So, can we go now?"

"You can," said Jack leaning forwards and tapping Cec on the shoulder. "I have a killer to arrest – and a witness to talk to; I'm assuming you've told Eliza I'm an acceptable person to speak with?"

"She's waiting just inside the door for you," said Mac, settling back into the seat.

Jack gave a nod and climbed out.

"Back to Miss Fisher's?" Cec asked.

"Please."

"Good," said Cec. "This tie's killing me."

Mac laughed.

*

Later, dressed far more comfortably in her own clothes, Mac lounged in one of Phryne's armchairs as Jack related the conversation he'd had with Eliza and her brother's subsequent arrest and confession.

"He sounds like a thoroughly nasty piece of work," said Phryne as Jack finished.

"And that," said Jack, "is an understatement."

"What's going to happen to Eliza?" Mac asked.

"Her parents are still sending her to Europe," said Jack. "To keep her out of the limelight. But," and he smiled, "they have agreed she should at least be allowed to attend her friend's funeral at the end of this week."

Mac snorted. "So they should."She sipped her drink and then smiled devilishly at Phryne and Jack. "Now, didn't someone mention something about a reward for all my efforts?"


End file.
